Losing sleep
by Ky03elk
Summary: The late hour is leaving its mark on his mind, and his imagination is creating a hundred and one different scenarios for how tomorrow will eventuate. Will she call because of a body drop, or should he arrive at the Precinct with coffee? Will it be awkward and jutted, or can they recapture the magic that had been the essence of them? Could they be more? Undead Again Fix it!


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Happy Birthday to Sandra xoxo Thank you for everything xoxo

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I hope this meets the requirements of a late Season Four fix it! Post Undead Again!

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* * *

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_Lately I been, I been losing sleep,_

_Dreaming about the things that we could be_

_._

His fingers rip once more through his hair before they hit the pillow; a pillow that should be cushioning his head as sleep dominates, except once again as the moon lifts itself high into the starlit sky, he remains awake.

He's no stranger to tossing and turning as the numbers on the clock continue their progression, but tonight it has become too much. The fragile dance that they are a part of, their tentative… Friendship? Partnership? Relationship? The complicated mess that is _them_ replays through his mind. He reiterates each conversation, every look, every touch, and attempts to see where he went wrong.

Up until days– _hours_ ago, he had believed that they were disintegrating, that everything they had achieved over the years was dissolving before his eyes. The memory of staring transfixed, as he'd witnessed her through the observation glass, watched as secrets had spilled out from frustrated lips, pierces his soul, leaves his heart splintering once again.

Yet as his unfocused gaze remains fixed on the bedroom ceiling, he is in agony over the fact that he may have been completely _incorrect _when it comes to his beliefs. He has been nursing the theory that they were over, finished, that she had never- _would_ never love him the way he loves her.

Surprisingly though, her words earlier today had spoken of hope and it is such a dangerous four-letter word for his psyche. As he had stood, perplexed, feet planted on the ground, she had offered him an olive branch to grasp ahold of. Had offered him tomorrow, when he had come so close to discarding all that they could be, as if they were nothing more than a broken toy, damaged and unfixable, tossed aside to be forgotten.

As if he could ever forget.

The late hour is leaving its mark on his mind, and his imagination is creating a hundred and one different scenarios for how tomorrow will eventuate. Will she call because of a body drop, or should he arrive at the Precinct with coffee? Will it be awkward and jutted, or can they recapture the magic that had been the essence of them? Could they be more?

He so desperately wants them to be more.

And as he again starts the tale, visualizes all the scenarios, the possibilities, he is struck with a thought. Why wait? Why is he dreaming up the occasion instead of taking charge for a change?

She had said that her walls were nearly down, that she wanted him to be around when they finally toppled, when she was rid of the bricks that had enclosed her. However… what if she requires some help kicking those last, stubborn ones to the ground? Because of all the things he is good at, kicking over apple carts is almost a specialty and he can't fathom why a bit of metaphoric wall should stop him at this point.

Maybe her '_almost__ there_' just needs a little push. Maybe she needs an incentive, a reason to shatter those walls. To reach the outside. To reach him.

Shifting slowly- he blames the late hour- Castle twists and turns until he succeeds in liberating himself from his tangled sheets. He plants both feet onto the soft rug that is lying under his bed, wiggles his toes as he encourages his blood to increase its circulation.

He thinks his first step should be to get up and get dressed. If he is going to blaze a new path, write a new story for them, then he should be dressed. No one has ever conquered Mount Everest in their pajamas.

He goes through the motions, barely paying attention to the process; his thoughts preoccupied with strategies, the logistics of his next step. He feels that it needs to be in person. For him to have any shot of demolishing the last pieces of her fortified wall, he is going to have to do it face to face, yet the thought has him slumping onto the side of his bed.

The probability that she's awake is slim, the probability that she's awake and willing to see him at this time of night are even slimmer– it's only a fraction above ludicrous.

But in this moment he is feeling brave, and now that he has direction, he's afraid that any pause in his momentum will leave him reverting to his usual behavior of waiting in the sidelines.

He has had enough. Concludes that waiting has only led to miscommunication and heartache and he wants to be free of subtext and words written between the lines. He wants to know what they are, what they could be. He wants, _needs_ some honesty.

He needs her.

* * *

The yawn that forces itself loose, causes her jaw to move sideways, cracking under the pressure and the skin around her mouth stretches, aches, and it joins the pain that throbs inside her chest.

Castle's behaviour of late has led to more than one night of restlessness. Had left her questioning what had happened. Where they had gone wrong, where _she_ had gone wrong. But she remains in the dark, at a loss, and today– while filled with long looks and fleeting touches– had only confused her more.

He had indicated that it was the end; his last case, their partnership over, and yet had pivoted in his declaration, completed a perfect one eighty as he had promised her tomorrow.

Well she had put it out there first, but he had echoed it back.

And then it hits her; she had made the first step. Had been making first steps throughout the whole case. And while still heavy laden with the subtext that is almost a requirement of a deep and meaningful conversation between the two of them, she had revealed, in a roundabout way, that she hadn't been able to deal with everything immediately after her shooting. That she had– _is_ seeing a therapist, that she's almost where she wants to be, that she is accepting all that had happened on that day. That the wall is coming down. That she wants him to be there when it does.

What if all he needed was the reassurance that she was still in this… this _thing_ that is _them_. What if his recent choices were merely a reaction to him doubting that one day there will be a _them_?

Doesn't _she_ doubt that on an hourly basis? She questions her ability to be all that he needs, he deserves on a daily basis. Isn't that in part why she has been putting in the work, striving to be more, so that one day they can be more?

Why can't one day be now?

She huffs at her own internal struggle; there are so many reasons why they should wait, take it slowly, yet as she rolls amongst her sheets, kicks at them in frustration, she is having trouble remembering one, let alone many.

She is so tired, tired of waiting, tired of another night thrashing against unseen forces as she lies awake, sleep elusive, unattainable again.

Tossing the covers to one side, she compels her body to exit the bed. Going for a run at this hour of the night is ridiculous, but her rumination is slowly driving her crazy; at least if her body is occupied and her thoughts drowned out with too loud music, she may find a resemblance of peace.

Or in any event, become so exhausted she has no choice but to slip unconscious.

As she begins pulling open drawers in search of her running gear, her phone interrupts and she jumps, startled. While she's accustomed to dispatch ringing while she is on call, a message during her weekend off is surprising, and it has her pausing, staring at the device in trepidation.

Unfortunately staring at the phone is not going to give her the answer she desires, and she moves, brings the phone to life again so she can read the message. And the surprises just keep on coming.

_Are you awake? Can we meet?_

* * *

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_But baby, I been, I been prayin' hard  
Said no more counting dollars  
We'll be counting stars_

_._

Staring up at the sky he wastes time counting stars, because it beats the alternative, the continuous speculation over what exactly he is doing, seated in a playground in the dark.

The instant he had hit send, had sent the question to her, he had regretted it; would have taken it back if he could. Hope had taken ahold of him, the idea that they could be more, that he could knock over the last of her wall by simply having a quiet têtê-á-têtê. An idea that is now about to come to fruition and the panic is swelling, coiling dangerously around his heart.

His simple query though had been answered quickly, especially considering he hadn't expected an answer at all, and he had bolted across the room to read her reply. The fact that she was obviously awake with him at this late hour– _early hour_– had concerned him; was she also lying there, in her own bed, contemplating their next step forward? Or was she planning her retreat, gathering more cement to reinforce the bricks that had crumbled to the ground today.

As he had raised the display, seen the one word alight in his palm, his breath had caught and a sense of apprehension coursed through his veins over the possibilities her reply invoked; was this a good sign or a bad one?

And he involuntarily read the text again just to ensure that he was seeing it right.

_Swings?_

Confirming with fingers sleek with sweat, he had moved quickly, had rushed to get to this moment and now… now all he wants to do is flee. He is much more confident at his desk, where his bravado can romp hand in hand with his imagination; in this real world scenario, it is dissipating with every lonely second, and he goes back to counting stars.

"Castle?"

Jerking sharply, the metal links of the chain twisting enclosed in his fists, he swivels in the swing's seat, shifting so that he is able to face her, and a corner of his mouth climbs at the sight before him. Dressed in running tights and a baggy tee, Beckett has a glow about her; she looks young, like she would look more at home in the dorms of the local college compared to the warrior detective he spends most of his days with. Had spent most of his days with.

"You look like you are off for a run." His eyes travel slowly, beginning at her sneakers tied with bright purple laces, and continuing so that he can smoothly caress her calves, which are tight from being in heels all day. His stare painstakingly crawls the length of her thighs, and he slides past the assumptions he has over their ability, so that he can visualize the curve of her rear; even hidden underneath the oversized shirt he knows its shape perfectly.

Unfortunately, his wandering is interrupted as Beckett clears her throat on purpose and his stare crashes into hers as an eyebrow lifts in question. Giving a shrug of his shoulders as an explanation, he blames the hour, the way she is illuminated against the darken sky, the way she is looking at him, and he is forced to echo her action; clears his throat to dislodge the lump that forms as the heat contained inside her gaze washes over him.

Standing abruptly, he approaches her before he becomes overwhelmed with all that needs to be said. There is such an extensive list of things that need to be discussed, truths on both sides that should probably be revealed before he says all the things he wants to say. But looking at her, the way the usual smooth skin of her forehead is puckered, the tension that rolls off her shoulders, he comes to the conclusion that he should probably ease them into this. Avoid an onslaught of honesty.

As if he has any desire to confess his secret; he hears the nagging voice at the back of his mind, whispering about files and smart boards and he wants to stay silent, but he pushes himself to at least say something.

"Do you want to go for a walk?"

The words tumble out, while he raises a finger, and it drifts as if it was controlled by a much bolder man, ghosts across the back of her hand. Tracing the slight indentations between each of her knuckles, he glides his skin over hers before circling back toward her wrist, the fire surrounding them radiates, spreads and suddenly he has no choice but to take a step back, affected by the breathlessness that seizes him.

Time always pauses in these moments, the moments in which they connect for a fleeting second, and the thought flutters by on butterfly wings; how will he survive actually becoming one with this woman in front of him?

Lifting his eyes to lock with hers, there is no longer sound, nothing else to see; they may as well be the only two people in the city, the only ones on earth and he wants nothing more than to step forward, end this standoff, begin the rest of their lives.

Clearing her throat again, Kate breaks their impasse, twists in order to create a distance between their bodies, forming a gap that feels a million miles wide and she stiffly begins strolling toward the nearest pathway.

Yet she looks back over her shoulder to ask, "You comin', Castle?"

Quietly they move as one, their ability to walk in sync was formed long ago, and it endures the test of time, remains unchanged in spite of all that they have been through of late, and he basks in the mystery that is them.

* * *

"What were you doing when I arrived?" He had seemed so enthralled with the space above, fixated on the darkness over their heads, and she waits patiently for a reply but is surprised by the '_huh' _that is expelled from his mouth, so she clarifies, "When I arrived you were staring up at the sky. I was just…?"

"Oh… I was counting stars."

Dragging her head back to scrutinize the lights above she can't help but point out, "You know they aren't really stars?"

He smiles then, the back of his hand brushing against hers and it brings forth a smile of her own, lashes dusting across her cheeks as her eyes close for a second.

"I know, but I can pretend."

There's a small hitch in her step as she hears his words, wonders why he would pretend when he could see the real thing and it hits her. Haven't they been pretending? Faking it until they can make it?

And it's this final deliberation that turns her hitch into a stumble. Why are they still faking it?

Of course, there are still things that need to be said, complete explanations she needs to give, about her actions, her lies and half-truths, but here in this moment all she wants is him.

"What if you didn't have to pretend?" she whispers and it stops him in his tracks. His eyes ascend to find hers and standing on the darken path, they watch, wait. His throat moves as he swallows, hands clench and release as if he is fighting an internal battle; he struggles to reply.

The wind blusters out of nowhere and loose strands of her hair whip across her face, become caught on the moisture on her lips, and he steps forward, narrows the area between them until he can coast a hand along her hairline, captures all he can.

"I don't want to pretend."

She barely hears his declaration, and at any other time, his words would have been lost to the noise around them, but in this instance, she hears each utterance as it pierces her heart.

It was not that many minutes ago that she was lying in her bed, concluding that she needs to take more first steps, that all the ones she has taken of late have paid off exponentially, and it is this thought that propels her forward.

And she takes another first step.

Because while they may have kissed before, passionately hid inside an embrace while attempting to fool their outside audience, this is most definitely going down as a first.

The lush skin of her mouth glides across his, their lips trapping, tugging, seeking desperately for access into what has remained forbidden for so long. So close and yet always out of reach.

And while Kate has no idea what tomorrow will hold, in his arms she no longer feels there is any doubt; at least whatever comes, she will be facing it with her partner by her side.

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Thank you to Jo for the edit xoxo

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As always, I appreciate your thoughts!

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